


Bibliomancy

by redsnake05



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Existentialism, F/F, Gen, Libraries, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: Irma Pince was called as Librarian to fulfil the vision of the Hogwarts Library. She's spent her life turning that vision into reality with the complicated magic of books. People are no less complicated.





	Bibliomancy

In the space between two pages, crushed like a love note stuffed in for safekeeping, she awoke. In the stillness outside time, she examined the books, from their heavy leather covers and elaborate clasps, to the tiny, crabbed footnotes under the graceful illuminations. She soaked up the book like a sponge. There were four hands at work, all telling the same tale with different eyes, and she devoured the words they recorded. She wrote herself into being. She was enlightened.

 

Between one moment and the next, she wriggled out of her shelving and into the aisle. She took a deep breath, and smelled parchment, fresh plaster and new timber. Stretching, she folded open, expanded, and filled up the space waiting for her. In front of her stood four humans, watching in awe.

 

"Greetings," she said, very quietly. "I am your librarian." 

 

>>>>

 

Irma chose her name for herself. One of the great themes of her book was completeness, springing from shared experience and vision, and she'd chosen this name in response. She liked the thought of being part of a universality of love and learning, though she saw that completeness was a lofty and distant goal for their fledgling new library.

 

She walked the aisles of her new domain and thought about all the knowledge it could house. There were relatively few books yet, but Irma cared for them lovingly. She applied charms to the shelves, to avoid anything toppling out, and to the narrow, unglazed, windows, to always allow enough light. She had learned that glass was expensive, and closed the rough wooden shutters by hand each night. She loved the space she had been given, and the space she could seeing it becoming.

 

"Irma?" called a voice, and Irma came out to the entrance to find Helga standing there with a series of boxes and crates floating behind her. Irma smiled; Helga was a frequent visitor. She always made sure Irma had what she needed, and was the only one who seemed to realise that Irma was herself as new as the library. From her, Irma was learning of consideration.

 

"Greetings," said Irma. "What is this?"

 

"I know you're probably getting sick of looking after the same books," said Helga, "and there is only so much polishing a body can do, so I brought you something new that I thought you might like. I intended to leave these for future generations, and I am sure our library is the best place to do that."

 

Irma was intrigued. The boxes had the familiar smell of parchment and ink, but it was not as crisp as she was used to. Helga led them to a table under the window, out of the way of any students, and let all the crates sink gently to the floor. She sat down, with Irma across from her.

 

"One of the things I wrote in the founding book," Helga continued, "was about the library as a place to store stories and the details of the past. An archive, not just of academic learning, but of people."

 

"I remember," said Irma. The words in the book that had made her were etched into her very bindings. She knew part of her job was to preserve that which made people who they were, though Irma still didn't really understand what that meant just yet. 

 

"So these are my papers," said Helga. "They are a story of me - not the whole story, but the written part of it. Letters, research notes, recipes, gardening almanacs… I am not even sure what you will find in there."

 

Irma looked at Helga. The kind, steady regard warmed her in a way that felt entirely human. Irma dimly realised that this was a trusting act; Irma would know Helga in a new way, with greater clarity and intimacy. She would learn more of the complexities of people, and of Helga in particular. It would be good, she thought. She wasn't sure that she quite knew what people were like; apparently, she had been a person, and would be one again, but the act of publishing herself into the library made her forget her past self. She was sure that Helga would be a good model as she built herself again.

 

"I am honoured," she said. She was sure that was the right phrase. It reflected the pride she felt in being allowed to see inside Helga's life.

 

"I know I could not find a better person to entrust them to. I am happy to explain anything that makes no sense." She smiled, a little sadly, Irma thought. "Some of these refer to people and places far away now."

 

Irma wondered what 'far away' meant to Helga. She would see, she supposed, as she read. Helga wished her farewell, politely and kindly, as she always did, and Irma considered the untidy heap of papers and notebooks.

 

There was a room, far at the back of the library, that seemed perfect for these personal stories. They would need more finely tuned charms to preserve them, and more discretion over who got to see them, and she considered what she knew of climate control. It seemed odd to keep them so distant from her current collection, mostly commonplace spell books, but Irma knew that her collection would grow, and she would one day have multiple sections, with layers of difficulty and access, and this was the first step towards that complex future.

 

Irma realised that she was making decisions about the shape of the library now, not just working off the clear directions in her original book of making, and she felt a second thrill of pride. She was the Librarian, and she was an independent being who ordered things as she wanted. She internally thanked Helga again as she started moving the boxes, even as she wrinkled her nose at the dust and cobwebs. Being a Librarian was not a sterile job, and she would forgive a little dirt in the pursuit of her vocation every now and then. Perhaps, one day, she would replace the tiny windows with large ones, with real glass.

 

>>>>

 

Excerpt from the preface of _Magical Institution Libraries: Guidelines_ , published by the International Confederation of Bibliomancy, vol. 38, May 14th, 1883.

 

"Great care should be taken when establishing the library, and, in particular, when first calling on the Librarian…. They will create themselves from the first book on their shelves, but will grow and develop with time in the conditions in which they find themselves. They are dynamic, responsive, even human, in the widest sense of the word…. Their power is the weight of paper and ink and human thought and passion behind them. They will endure till the utter destruction of their library, an event they will resist with all the might and power they can command, to the very limits, as it were, of their being."

 

>>>>

 

Helga was not the only one to bring material for the archive. Rowena followed, and Godric, and even Salazar. She had not liked the way Salazar tried to claim a whole new space for his writings, as if they must need even closer guard, but she merely smiled politely and did what she wanted anyway. He was not to say that only a certain type of witch or wizard was fit to read his work. Once it came to her hands, it belonged to the library, and she would order that.

 

Learning to dissemble was one of the unexpected outcomes of her new project. The experience of reading very polite letters alongside extremely impolite diary entries on the same subject was illuminating, and she found herself learning when and how humans said one thing while thinking another. She found it a useful skill, but one she didn't like to use too often herself, though it proved invaluable in sorting and filing material for the archives and collection. Where once she had absorbed everything with uncritical eyes, she now saw judgement and bias where it crept into texts. She accepted that it existed, and remembered that she herself was the result of four versions of the same story.

 

She knew, of course, that there was tension between the founders. It came out in a myriad of ways, small and large, but her business was the library, and she would focus on that. It was still a fledgling thing, with no way of knowing what it might grow into. She sorted into categories by subject, cleaned the dust that crept through the shutters, and provided a quiet space for learning, and she would turn away no student who wished for that, no matter how they were born. She could scarcely judge.

 

She woke one night, feeling a strange itch on her skin, like the sharp scratch of an incautious quill. She felt like her spine was being cracked, her pages dog-eared, and she stumbled from her room into the library in a nauseous panic. She made her way through the maze of mostly empty shelves, in and out of slatted beams of moonlight spilling through the shutters, and her feet scuffed on the bare stone floors until she came to her main desk, by the doors. 

 

There she found Salazar, her book of founding on the table in front of him and a pool of warm candlelight around him. He frowned at his quill and dipped it into the ink again before jabbing at the page once more. The faint skritch of tip on paper made her feel sick and she clung to a convenient shelf to hold herself up.

 

"What are you doing to my book?" she said, moving forward to the edge of the candlelight and holding onto a chair for support.

 

Salazar turned in faint, supercilious, surprise. "Ah, Irma, just making a few revisions. Correcting some of the false statements made by my colleagues."

 

"You need to stop," she said.

 

"Stop?" he echoed. "No, it's them that need to stop, and this is one way to make it happen. I will make you a better guardian for the true knowledge of wizardry. You want to be the best you can be, don't you? Ambitious for the glory of your library?"

 

He seemingly dismissed her from his mind and dipped his quill back into the ink. She swallowed hard against the sickening sensation.

 

"You must stop, please," she said again. "This is hurting me." She thought at first that he just didn't understand, but he dipped his quill in the ink again without even really seeming to notice that she was still there, and still talking.

 

"It is for your own good," he said, without looking up. "It doesn't really hurt. Don't worry, I will remove all that foolish human feeling from you with my edits."

 

Irma was frightened. The ink appeared to be sinking into the page without trace, and the stabbing of his quill was more violent as he became frustrated. She was also angry, burning steadily under the fear, but unsure as to what she could do. She'd never had to defend herself, though she felt the ability deep inside herself. She had been made to fight when needed.

 

A noise at the door made her look around and she nearly sobbed with relief. Helga bustled in, wrapped in a heavy homespun gown with her hair down, but still clearly competent and decisive. Helga would settle this, Irma knew.

 

"I heard voices," she said.

 

"Helga, please, he's trying to edit me," Irma said. She saw Helga's gaze come to rest on Salazar's quill and the book open in front of him.

 

"You will stop," she said. 

 

"Just a few edits, my dear," Salazar said. His tone was markedly more civil, even conciliatory, but Irma could still hear the echo of disrespect in it and she pushed aside a bit more of her fear in anger that anyone could disrespect Helga. "The Librarian should be a guardian of knowledge for the best of our kind."

 

"You do not have the right to seek to change her," Helga said. "She is a person, like anyone else, and free to find her own path."

 

"She is a construct," Salazar said. "One step above house elves, and below even those wretched Muggleborns. There, that should please you; I've elevated them above someone at last."

 

"She is a person," said Helga again, "and she chose to come to us, from the lofty vision we wrote of our school for all witches and wizards. She is a person, human, with feelings, and she loved the purpose we wrote so much she gave up everything to take up the Librarianship. Again, you cannot overwrite her."

 

"I am right to do so!" said Salazar, anger overpowering his air of weary righteousness. "You know I am right! They dilute our blood and clutch at our ancient knowledge, and I wish them gone. I will see them gone! Why should I not change this simulacrum of a witch?"

 

He reached for his wand, and Irma found her sense of self, rising up on her tide of rage. Backed by the vast reaches of her library, the weight of leather, paper, ink, and the very words of love and care she'd been born from, she held out her hand and let power flow from it. She would not stand by and see violence threatened, or see herself or others erased.

 

"Get out at once!" she said, and the hex sizzled from her fingers. Salazar turned his furious, hateful gaze on her, but her book snapped shut and the quill slid from his fingers. It turned, sharp-tipped and deadly, and flew at him. He swatted it away, but she poured all the might of her library behind her into it, and he fell back as it stabbed him over and over again. He ran for the door, and Helga stepped aside to let him go. Irma clung to her power, dragging it back inside herself bit by bit. She had never experienced anything like that. It was even more terrifying than Salazar's naked contempt and anger.

 

Helga wrapped her up in a warm embrace, letting Irma shake out the last of her fear and pain in her arms. It was the first time Irma had been held so closely, with such compassion. It was good to know that someone was able to love her, human or not.

 

"Thank you," Helga said. Irma shook her head silently. She should be thanking Helga, not the other way around.

 

"We made no mistake when we asked for you," Helga continued. "You are the perfect Librarian, and person, to look over this school. Ignore his hatred, if you can. We love you and accept you."

 

"I was so scared," Irma admitted.

 

"I was too," said Helga. Irma shook her head again, but Helga simply stroked her hair back and ignored her protest. "It's natural," said Helga. "Human, even. He is a bitter, hateful man, and you didn't let that stop you. You know that we all have a place here."

 

"That's what Hogwarts is," said Irma.

 

"It is," agreed Helga. Irma's heart slowed as she calmed, and she felt instead a renewed purpose. She supposed this was love, and she put her own arms around Helga and nestled close. She would hold the knowledge of this library, for all who came. 

 

>>>>

 

Excerpt from Swanhild Clarke (1851) _The Library: a construction of knowledge_ :

 

"Libraries are often seen as passive reservoirs of knowledge. They house books and papers and other dead things, according to the majority opinion. The knowledge should be available to those worthy to read it, so the doors of the library are a barrier, with noble study on one side and unwashed ignorance without. In this viewpoint, Librarians, also, are passive. They maintain, conserve and guard the knowledge housed within. They exist to serve the worthy, in this view.

 

A cursory reading of previous literature, coupled with even a passing acquaintance with any magical library or archive, should show the error in this perception. What is preserved, how, where, and who can access it - these are all social, cultural and political questions. One cannot consider whether, say, the personal correspondence of a particular member of a professional group, should be archived without reference to the social and cultural purpose of the archive in question, and the intersection of the member with that purpose. Therefore, we should see libraries as places where knowledge, in the widest sense, is constructed by humans for human purposes. 

 

Likewise, and more magically interesting, Librarians are engaged on the business of constructing both themselves and the library to which they are bound. Other writers have comprehensively and persuasively argued for the humanity of Librarians, and this book argues likewise for their location in a dynamic of knowledge construction…. Librarians decide the answers to our questions posed above: what is preserved, when, how and who can access it. Thus they are placed at the crux of every vexed question over freedom of knowledge. Each Librarian must answer this according to their heart."

 

>>>>

 

Irma walked down the aisles of the History of Magic section, frowning up at the towering rows of polished wood and serviceable leather. There was nothing obviously out of place, but it felt all wrong, like things had been tucked back in oddly and were cramped and uncomfortable. She tapped one of the uprights with her wand and sighed as several books came flying out and hovered around. 

 

Shelving was an art in its own right. Magical books needed to settle together in orderly, sorted rows. There was a kind of contented aura that well-shelved books had, and Irma appreciated that in her library. She knew that books were supposedly inanimate, but the weight of magic they held was at least as sentient as, say, moss. Or perhaps Devil's Snare might be the best analogy. When encouraged and nurtured, books would be happy and make a beautiful collection where things were easy to find, but crumpling pages or squeezing them into an already crammed row was likely to cause damage, and not just to the book, but to the reader.

 

Levitating herself, she started working her way through the books that had been misplaced. Some needed nothing more than a soft hand over their covers and an appreciative thought of how they completed their little corner of the library before they were happy to slot into their rightful place. Others had the ruffled indignation of a damp cat, and needed their pages smoothed and a little pep talk before they were eased back into the collection.

 

Irma expected this sort of confusion during term time, and a considerable part of her work was fixing up the mess made by students. Irma provided many carts for books to be put on when they were finished, so that she could put them away at her leisure, but a small number of students seemed to think putting the books away themselves was helpful. She supposed that some of them probably were helpful. There were students who had a feeling for the dignity of a book, and who mentally thanked it for existing before putting it back where they found it. She could tolerate those students. There were others who didn't even seem to notice if they stuffed a book into the wrong place, where it didn't fit, and with crumpled pages and bent covers into the bargain. And not just students, she thought darkly, as a loud and tuneless whistling started around the corner.

 

She finished the books in the aisle and let herself sink back to the floor. The whistling stopped as she walked around the corner. She had at least managed to impress upon him that whistling, along with sniffing, tapping, humming and formless warbling, was forbidden, even if he didn't remember all the time.

 

"My dear Madam Pince," Beedle said, looking at her somewhat nervously. "How delightful to see you."

 

"Have you misplaced your library cart?" she asked, ignoring his greeting. She might have been requested to host this so-called writer in her library, but she didn't have to like him.

 

"No, no, I've just been putting things away as I'm done with them," he said. "I don't want to cause you more work."

 

Irma took a deep breath. He was so very earnest, and he was trying so hard to fit into the library, but he didn't seem to understand.

 

"Mr Beedle," she said, "I have asked you to use the library cart so as to not cause me more work."

 

"I don't understand," he said. "I'm putting them away exactly where I find them."

 

Irma felt like screaming, or shaking the man by his shoulders. He was a writer, but he didn't understand that stories were not the same as books. Stories were infinitely malleable during construction, and open to all sorts of editing and phrasing changes. Books, however, had been transcribed, or, more recently, printed, and bound neatly and in an orderly way, and it gave them structure. They were no longer open to change, and had to be carefully handled to smooth them down and bring them into a harmonious collective when stored together.

 

"Come with me," she said, and led the way to a different aisle, one that he'd been working in earlier. She tapped the shelf and the books he'd looked at and put away all popped out, looking, to her eyes, ruffled and a bit indignant. She reached for one and showed it to him. There was a little scuff in one corner, and a page near the back was turned partway over. She smoothed them, benevolently restoring them to their contented state, and slid the book into the gap waiting for it.

 

"I don't understand," he said again. "I just want to do the right thing."

 

"Then use the cart," snapped Irma. "Or better yet, write your book and go, and leave us in peace."

 

Beedle looked undecided for a moment, like he wanted to say more, but she didn't wait for whatever foolish ideas he wanted to share. She soared up to the top shelves and started on the books there. She didn't hear him leave, and that's how she wanted it. Peace, quiet, and the orderly satisfaction of the library around her; they were all she needed. She pushed aside all thoughts of how differently she'd thought once, when she delighted in companionship. The past was a foolish daydream, and it didn't help to think of the fleeting pleasure of human contact.

 

Peace and quiet were what she got for the next two weeks. Beedle left his library cart neatly by the Librarian's desk at the end of each day, and Irma put the books away. She found they were more pliant in her hands, less scuffed and disturbed, but she put that down to Beedle using the cart properly.

 

One evening, she found Beedle waiting beside the cart. She paused on seeing him, but there was no room for her to escape. 

 

"Good evening," she said, hoping that he would say whatever it was that he wanted and move on. Perhaps he was finished and wishing her a formal farewell.

 

"Good evening," he replied. "I was hoping I could have a few minutes of your time."

 

"Of course," she said, hoping that the few minutes would be, indeed, just that.

 

She took her seat behind her desk and waited as he levitated a chair over to sit on the other side. She folded her hands together and looked at him expectantly.

 

"You were right," he started, "to show me a side of books and libraries I had never before realised. Like many, I did not know the zeitgeist of a collection was built from the spines and bindings and ink of the actual books. Now that I have felt it, I understand differently. I can feel the weight of the books and the sureness of your hand in shaping them."

 

"I see," Irma said, somewhat blankly. She had not been expecting this kind of discussion, and she found herself momentarily at a loss. She had seen people through a defensive lens for so long that she was struggling to manage this unexpected empathy and understanding.

 

"I must confess," he continued, "that I found it hard to find a human place here. The books seem to serve knowledge in an abstract, and I found it hard to recognise the traces of people and their experience and concerns. There was only the books themselves."

 

Irma opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again. He was right. She had systematically pruned the humanity from the library collection in every choice she made, and had done for a long time. She couldn't even be sure when those choices had started, only that she had become steadily more and more closed off.

 

"Would you like a drink?" she asked instead. Beedle smiled across the table at her. It was a genuine expression of friendliness, of warmth, and an invitation to connect. She wondered when she had started cutting those things from her life also.

 

"I would dearly love one," he replied. 

 

Irma tapped the tray next to her, and if the house elf who answered was surprised to find her talking to another person, they were too polite to show it. The small beer appeared quickly at her elbow, with some little meat pies, and Irma took a long swallow to hide her nervousness.

 

"You are right too," she said, blurting out an honest truth like she'd forgotten how to. "I have always known that this should be a place of human stories, and shaped in service of their needs and desires, but I have forgotten it too much recently."

 

"I imagine it is hard to balance," Beedle said. A small silence fell, and Irma tried hard to remember what one usually did to just talk with another person. Beedle seemed unconcerned. He took a bite of one of the pies.

 

"I love Hogwarts food," he said. Irma smiled. Commonplace, that's what it was, but it was alright. It was normal and human, and she found herself appreciating the pie more as he told her about his own, disastrous, attempts at baking, and what he'd learned from Muggle cooking during his research. She felt herself warming once more to the stories of people, and even laughed as he told her of living with a Muggle family for a while and all the absurd and creative shifts they were put to, to navigate the world without magic. She remembered all the parts of her writing now, and let herself open up to the world again. Beside knowledge was love; beside books, people.

 

>>>>

 

Excerpt from Seramis Ozdemir (1705) _Worlds within worlds: a guide to Bibliomancy and its core principles_ :

 

"It would be a grave mistake to think of Librarians as mere creatures, sprung from books and the magical intent of the library's founder. We do not fully understand the forces at work in the creation of a Librarian, but they learn and grow as humans do. They breathe and eat and sleep and love. 

 

It is true, of course, that some Librarians stray far from what we might think of as humanity. They can become cold, or uncaring, or lavish their love on their collection and give no thought to the people who made it, or need it. The same, unhappily, can be true of people, and cannot be taken as evidence of any kind.

 

It is a complex magic that brings a Librarian into being: a magic of human thought, belief and expression. The Librarian is a literal masterpiece of existentialism. He or she is self-constructed, self-shaped, from creative endeavour, growing from an inheritance of deliberate love. What could be more human?"

 

>>>>

 

Irma paused by the door to the Founder's Archive. It was still one of her favourite places in the library. She'd kept it true to its original shape and fixtures, even as the library around it grew sleeker and more modern. There was something satisfying about the thick timber joinery and the roughness of the stonework, even if it did take more time and energy to keep controlled and maintained. She could stand inside and remember the first day she'd stood there with Helga's boxes piled around her, and how she'd imagined and planned and worked to get it how she wanted it.

 

Tom Riddle sat at one of the simple wooden tables and frowned at the notebook in front of him. He'd come with a note from Professor Slughorn, to work on a private project. It was unusual, particularly as he was only in his fifth year, but not unheard of. He looked up and smiled at her. It was a charming smile, though Irma wasn't quite sure that she liked it.

 

"Have you found everything you need?" she asked.

 

"I'm not sure," he said. "I am looking for some information on something specific." She glanced at the notebook in front of him. One of Salazar's, from around 998, though the translation was from the 1700s, when a raft of modern historians decided to revise the old latin founding texts. It was a workmanlike effort, in her opinion.

 

"Hmm, Slytherin's notebooks do seem to be all over the place," she said. "And he had only the barest grasp of order." She observed Riddle's eyes narrow, and remembered that he was in Slytherin. Perhaps his House loyalty got in the way of accepting the faults in his founder. "There is a partial index however," she continued.

 

She crossed to the shelves and tapped the rhythm that brought up the file box with the index. It had been the work of many dreary weeks for a historian in the 1400s. Irma could still remember the incessant complaining, both over the cramped and old-fashioned conditions, and the inconsistent spelling and poor handwriting of Slytherin himself.

 

"Now, what is it exactly you are looking for?" she said. 

 

Riddle looked shifty for a moment, before his face smoothed back out into its usual expression of polite interest. Irma had learned to always be cautious with eager scholars, and had found those interested in Slytherin's work to be particularly unscrupulous.

 

"I'm interested in his efforts to transcribe Parseltongue," he said. 

 

"Yes, that's an interesting part of his research," Irma agreed, glad that he was at least pretending to steer clear of Slytherin's more radical theories on magical purity. While Irma was devoted to the conservation of the wealth of knowledge housed here, she could not bring herself to personally or intellectually approve of some of the writing that made it up. Every time she had to even think about Slytherin's more extreme writings - some of which she made available only to scholars at a far higher level than Riddle - she felt the residual urge to stab through every page with red ink.

 

She retrieved two notebooks and handed them to Riddle. Again, his speculative expression was short-lived, but Irma saw it clearly. She couldn't be sure if it signalled genuine interest in understanding Slytherin's thoughts and motivations with critical compassion, or if he merely wished to find excuses for intolerance. Clearing away the papers he had finished with, she considered him again. It was not her business to require justification of why someone wanted to learn something; one of her core values was learning for the love of it, to experience the pure joy of expanding one's mind.

 

"Are you a Parselmouth?" she asked. It was a rare gift, but she'd known others to come here with the same request, though not for a long time. Slytherin's odd experiment in transcribing parseltongue was generally inaccessible, but Riddle might find it interesting if he was able to imagine the sounds as meaning something.

 

"Yes," he said, with an edge of defiance to his voice. Irma kept her own voice level and non-judgemental. It seemed that Parseltongue was not a simple gift anymore, but one that had gotten wrapped up with some other, supposedly dark, traits.

 

"I've known others," she said. 

 

"Are you one?" he asked, on a note of challenge.

 

"In a manner of speaking, perhaps," she said. It was not his business what had been written into her binding at her making. She decided to show him the papers, which Slytherin appeared to have written entirely in his experimental parseltongue script. She could only pick up a few traces or half-feelings of words here and there with her residual impression of parseltongue, but it seemed no more dangerous than the rest of his writings.

 

"Try this," she said, handing a small sheaf over. His eyes lit up. Watching him, she was still more than half dubious about his intentions, but she let it go. She housed the knowledge and stories that made up this place, and one day Tom Riddle might be part of that history for her to hold. It shouldn't do him lasting harm.

 

>>>>

 

Excerpt from a personal letter, from Helga Hufflepuff to Irma Pince, 1043:

 

"My dear, it is a great joy to share the fiftieth anniversary year of our great work, and, indeed, your fiftieth birthday into the bargain. It feels odd to write to you, as it always does, knowing you must read it as both my dear love and as the archivist of my posterity. I have every confidence in your subtlety, however, and am sure you will read in a spirit of both, and know which things are the foolish nothings of my old affection and which are the wise and important sayings of my work.

 

As I sharpened my quill to write this, I thought of your creation, if we should so call it. I had no real idea how you would emerge, and was not expecting you to spring forth, fully and perfectly formed, like Sulis Minerva from the waters at Bath. You took my breath away, and have not yet ceased to surprise me. You have grown as the Castle has grown, though I have long since stopped thinking of you as in any way coming from me. That would be awkward, no? 

 

Indeed, you are your own person, as I told Salazar those many years ago. A person of stern and strict demeanour, as is right for the one who guards our knowledge, but with deep wells of passion and empathy below. It delights my old heart to think of you continuing our great work, long after we are gone, though I will miss you dearly at the same time."

 

>>>>

 

Irma paused for a moment at the doors to the Great Hall. It was odd to breakfast there alone in the summer holidays, when she happened to be around, but even more odd to find someone else at the table before her. She hadn't been expecting any of the other staff to be in residence, and she herself was only there for a few days to sort out some tricky charms in the climate controlled section.

 

As she approached the table, the other person stood, and she realised that she didn't know them at all. A vague recollection of Dumbledore telling them he was going to hire a new caretaker crossed her mind, and she supposed this must be him. It made sense that he would be here, as Hagrid was, for most of the year. She was around more than the professors, certainly, but the caretaker and groundskeeper were the solid glue that kept the Castle ticking along.

 

"Good morning," she said. "I am Irma Pince, the Librarian."

 

"Argus Filch," he said, hovering awkwardly as she took a seat across from him. "New caretaker." He sat down again at last. Breakfast appeared at once, on her side of the table only. She frowned at it.

 

"Are you not eating this morning?" she asked. He shook his head, but didn't appear to be able to say anything. "Is there something wrong?" she persisted.

 

"I can't get anything to eat," he muttered at last. "Professor Dumbledore told me the meal times and to come here, but it won't appear. Mortal hungry, I am."

 

"There must be some problem," she said, and tapped the table with her wand. A House Elf popped into place by her knee.

 

"Good morning, Mistress," he said. "Is mistress wanting kippers?"

 

"Good morning," she replied. "No, I have everything I want, but perhaps Mr Filch, our new caretaker, does not?"

 

The house elf turned and appeared startled to see the thin, miserable-looking man across the table.

 

"We did not know that new Caretaker Sir was here," the elf said. He wrung his hands in mortification. 

 

"No punishing yourself," said Irma. "But why can you not tell when he arrives?"

 

The house elf looked even more embarrassed, if that was possible. It was Filch who answered, though.

 

"I'm a Squib," he said, in an anguished whisper. "I should have known it was too good to be true, when Dumbledore offered me the job. Not the first time one of the nobs has had a good laugh, but they don't often try to starve me for fun."

 

"Come now," said Irma, "Dumbledore has many idiosyncrasies, but I am tolerably certain that starving his staff is not one of them, whatever else might be said of other headmasters. It seems more likely that he had a moment of oversight and did not actually check whether you would be able to access the normal facilities of the school." 

 

Privately, she thought it was rather typical of him to have some great idea and forget to follow through with the details, but she would let Filch come to his own opinions in the matter. She appreciated many things about Dumbledore, but certain aspects of his attention to detail left much to be desired.

 

"Is there a solution?" she asked. She held up her hand to forestall Filch, as he appeared to be ready to mumble miserably that he'd be ready to leave, or perhaps die. "A solution that enables Mr Filch to do his job?"

 

It took some experimentation and a few obscure little spells - she politely didn't notice the jealousy flit across Filch's face every time she summoned a book - but eventually Filch was able to trigger the sensor spell in the kitchen that told the elves when someone was sitting at the table. 

 

The house elf, obviously still mortified that a human had been ignored, even if it wasn't his fault, then inquired with a great deal of grovelling if there was anything in particular that Filch liked. Filch's face lit up for the first time, and Irma was moved to pity at the realisation of how unpleasant his life must have been till now, if he'd never been prepared to be a part of the Muggle world. She remembered a few of her own early days, when she hadn't quite understood something, and felt sympathy for this poor, awkward man and his plight.

 

"I will be here for a few days," she said, after the house elf had bowed one last time and left, leaving Filch delightedly surrounded by plates and trays and pots. "You must let me know if there is anything else you're finding difficult to manage, as we can put a few fixes into place before the start of the school year."

 

"Thank you," he said. He sounded almost tearful, and Irma wondered if he'd ever experienced much kindness before. She wanted to know how Dumbledore had found him, and why he thought he'd be a good caretaker, but it wasn't her business and she didn't want to encroach. Instead, she smiled encouragingly at him.

 

"And if you have any particular books you would like, please let me know."

 

He looked instantly crestfallen. "I can't really read magical books," he said.

 

"They don't have to be magical," she said. "We have some Muggle books, if you prefer." It was true; a small collection of books collected from the things students left behind. She had read many of them, and found some of them fascinating.

 

"There is one sort of book," he said, his voice filled with reluctant yearning. She nodded at him to go on as she poured another cup of tea. "It's a Muggle writer, named Georgette Heyer. But I don't suppose you'll want those sorts of books in your nice magical library."

 

"I want the sort of books that people like and want to read," she said firmly. She had no idea who this Georgette Heyer person was, but she was passing through London in a few days and was sure she could make a foray into the Muggle part of the city to find some. 

 

She might buy some others too; Muggle books might be comforting to the Muggle-born students, and illuminating for those raised in magical families. Rearranging the small section on arthroscopic spell techniques would free up space on the west side. There was a small area with comfortable chairs and good light for reading in the evening. It was already often used for reading for pleasure, and perhaps a Muggle literature area would be a good addition. She would have to do research, of course, and decide on how to order and sort things. Smiling, she rose from the last of her breakfast, anticipating all the practical, sensible work she would have to do. She looked forward to it.

 

She left Filch at the table, promising to meet him at lunchtime to help him with the other parts of making the Castle work for him. She had a rather impolite owl to send to Dumbledore before she started on her climate control charms and deciding how best to rearrange her domain.

 

>>>>

 

Text from a postcard, from Irma Pince to Argus Filch, dated 1999:

 

"Dear Argus,

 

I hope things are well at the Castle and you are finally getting a break now that the reconstruction is finished. You have worked hard, and shown everyone that magic is not necessary to truly love and serve at Hogwarts. Without your knowledge of the Castle and ability to navigate it without magic, things in the battle might have gone differently. That is its own kind of heroism. I know I have said it before, but I'm not sure you believe me: you should be proud of what you've done.

 

I have found some of the books you asked me about and will be owling them soon. You can get started on reading any that take your fancy before I get back. I hope you feel honoured; I wouldn't trust many to give them back when they're done.

 

See you in August,

Irma"

 

>>>>

 

"This looks like a very thorough stack of books," Irma said, reaching for her date stamp. She looked at the child in front of her; Hannah Abbott, Hufflepuff. She looked worn and tense, and Irma put a little more compassion into her voice. "You'll be very well-prepared for your examinations."

 

Hannah smiled, but it was a wan and shaky effort. "I'm no good at exams," she said.

 

"No one truly likes them," said Irma. "But you're still studying. If they could test determination, I am sure you would do very well."

 

"Thanks," said Hannah. She wiped her nose with her sleeve, a disgusting habit, but Irma realised she was about to cry and conjured her a soft handkerchief. Hannah blew her nose again. 

 

Irma had always felt a little helpless in the face of this sort of distress. She had never been tested in such an impersonal way. Once established in this body, she'd merely had to grow and learn in her own directions, shaping and being shaped by the library and the people around it. Still, this was clearly a time that needed sympathy and understanding and not her usual strict vigilance and sternness. This child did not need a lecture, but to be reminded of her right to be here, seen and respected as a person, whatever the outcome of those wretched examinations. 

 

"Sit down," she said, charming a chair to trot quietly over. Hannah sank into it and looked at Irma with doubt written large on her face. Irma ignored that. Of course she was terrifying to the children; how else would they learn to respect the knowledge housed here? But now was not the time for ferocity. She tapped her wand twice on the tea tray by her elbow, and a few seconds later a house elf appeared, laden with a pot, cups, milk and biscuits. The elf was one who often helped around the library, and Irma smiled with recognition and gratitude.

 

"Thank you, Inky" Irma said. The house elf beamed and disappeared with a very quiet pop. 

 

"How do you have your tea?" Irma asked. 

 

"White, no sugar," Hannah said. She accepted the tea in a dazed fashion, and the biscuits with rather more enthusiasm.

 

"Which part of the examinations seems hardest to you?" Irma asked.

 

"I just… I seem to go blank, no matter how hard I study."

 

"Hufflepuffs, as a rule, are not amenable to pressure," Irma agreed. "There are exceptions, of course - I understand that Bridget Wenlock, the arithmancer and a very famous Hufflepuff indeed, was inclined to dance with joy before a test."

 

"I'm not going to be a arithmancer," said Hannah.

 

"Just as well," said Irma. "She was said to be a shockingly bad dancer."

 

This got a faint laugh.

 

"However, I am sure there are many things you are good at, even if they seem insignificant compared to the academic achievements of your peers. The trick is, of course, to measure yourself by yourself."

 

"Easier said than done," said Hannah.

 

"Yes," agreed Irma. "This stack of books tells me you're not afraid of hard work, though."

 

Irma let Hannah finish her tea in thoughtful silence. She looked more cheerful, though, and that was always good. When she left, Irma stacked the tea things back onto the tray and watched them sink into the surface. 

 

"That was thoughtful," said Minerva, coming around the end of a nearby set of shelves.  

 

"How long have you been there?" Irma asked. Minerva was not usually to be found in the beginner's herbology section, so it seemed likely that she was here with some purpose.

 

"As if you don't know everything that happens here! I thought it best for Miss Abbott's nerves that I stayed out of sight."

 

"That was thoughtful," echoed Irma.

 

"It was," agreed Minerva, "and, unlike you, I am immodest enough to take the praise."

 

"You've always had determination in spades, but your modesty, while impressive, is not quite at Hufflepuff levels," said Irma. "But what are you doing here anyway? You have no books ordered and I doubt you're really in need of a general guide to magical grasses."

 

"I don't only come to see you for your books," said Minerva. "And I would have made an excellent Hufflepuff."

 

Irma waited, allowing the blatant untruth to pass with just a smile. Minerva seemed outwardly calm, but there were signs of nervousness there, and Irma remembered what a highly strung young thing she had been once. When Minerva glanced over her shoulder, Irma took pity on her. Things had been difficult enough recently, with Dumbledore gone and the so-called High Inquisitor running things. Irma, who had lived through one period of High Inquisition already, felt sure that this too would pass, but could see how that was not very useful to others.

 

"Sit down," she said. She cast a privacy charm, strong enough to sizzle, and waited for Minerva to speak.

 

"I am worried, and wished to open my concerns to the person most likely to understand - and perhaps to have a solution. We have never spoken of it, but you are the one who knows the Castle the best, and you have seen things come and go that I might not be able to imagine."

 

"I take it you speak of the High Inquisitor."

 

"I do."

 

"You have lived through two Dark Lords, Minerva, and I have heard of your resourcefulness and courage. This woman is a petty tyrant, a sadist, insecure and foolish. She will pass sooner than either Grindelwald or Voldemort, may their names be disfigured by sputtering pens forever. What really worries you?"

 

Minerva was silent. Her fingers were restless on the edge of the desk, and Irma reached out without thought and wrapped them up in her hand. She was sure she knew what concerned Minerva, and she was happy to reassure her. 

 

"You're worried because our High Inquisitor seems like she should be simple to solve, and yet she is not. Rest assured, Minerva, you are doing all that may be done. You have the courage and belief to lead us all through this time."

 

Minerva smiled and turned her hand over, grasping Irma's fingers in hers. 

 

"Despite your fearsome exterior - I was terrified of you for much of my schooling - you are kind and perceptive underneath."

 

"I learned well," Irma said. "Just as you did, and Miss Abbott will, though I fear that her Inquisitorial Highness is unable to. Isn't that something worth pitying?"

 

>>>>

 

Excerpt from a diary of Phineas Nigellus Black, dated 1895:

 

"I am no further progressed in my ambition to remove that woman, if so we should call her, from the post of librarian. She continues to let Mudbloods and Half-bloods mingle freely with those of pure birth in the library, and refuses all persuasion to segregate. She has thwarted me at every turn, and if I appear chagrined, then I can rightfully claim reason. I have tried to reduce her funding, but it appears I cannot. I forbade those verminous house elves to serve her, but they ignored me - I will take good care that no elf in my service is capable of such disloyalty. I appealed to the Minister for Magic, and he laughed in my face. Needless to say, he will suffer for his rudeness, but that is beside the point. I cannot quash her. I cannot reason with her. I cannot remove her. In my attempts, most recently I narrowly escaped death when she toppled a shelf of books on me and gave them teeth."

 

>>>>

 

Irma looked up from her desk as a disturbance of some kind rolled towards the library entrance. She wasn't sure she approved, a feeling that was confirmed as High Inquisitor Dolores Umbridge burst open the sturdy doors. Irma strongly preferred that people entered the library quietly, with a proper appreciation for purpose of this space and the sense of order she nurtured.

 

Irma watched impassively as Umbridge inflated herself in front of the desk and cleared her throat. She lifted her eyebrows and waited. Umbridge seemed to take this as a sign of cowed submission.

 

"My dear Miss Pince," she said, "now that the school year draws to a close, I must turn my mind to a consideration of how best to order it for the time going forward."

 

Irma made a noncommittal noise, which seemed to embolden Dolores. She leaned forward and gave a distinct air of being co-conspirators. 

 

"With our recent staff exits, I am no longer hindered in my pursuit of cleaning up this school. Therefore, I know you will be happy to assist by crating up, for removal, any books that are Dark, or likely to cause impressionable children to get quite the wrong idea about things - books critical of the Ministry and so on."

 

"No," said Irma, quite impassively, "no, I'm afraid I won't be able to do that."

 

"Ah, Miss Pince, you do know I'm High Inquisitor, and I require your assistance in this matter."

 

"Yes, I know you're High Inquisitor. No, I still won't be able to accede to your request."

 

"I hardly expected such ridiculous scruples from you!" Dolores said, looking quite affronted now.

 

"Even leaving aside the unfortunate, hasty, and immoral manner in which a number of my colleagues have been removed, I could still not agree." Irma maintained her calm as she spoke, despite the slow fury growing in her. She could see it working on Dolores's frustration and grandiose sense of entitlement.

 

"I am <i>High Inquisitor</i>" hissed Dolores. "Let me remind you, least you have forgotten that I can remove you too."

 

"You cannot," said Irma, unmoved by the threat, perhaps the simplest that she could have encountered. "You are not the first High Inquisitor who has been dissatisfied with the state of the library, but I daresay you are unfamiliar with the unfortunate Low Countries Purity Inquisition of 1493. Indeed, it can hardly compare to the Muggle version, and that, I know, is something you would rather not have mentioned in this library at all. Nevertheless, my position is not at your discretion, I am subject only to the rules of the International Confederation of Librarians and Bibliomancers."

 

"My dear Miss Pince-" started Dolores.

 

"I am not your dear anything," said Irma. "I have stood back and allowed you to run your course, but I can see now that your ill-informed, small-minded agenda is so petty in scope that you will continue to maliciously poke and pry indefinitely. So let me make this very clear: I am the Librarian, the keeper and guardian of the stories and knowledge housed here. Any child who comes to me, and any book in my keeping, I shall protect with all the power at my disposal."

 

"Do not trifle with me," shrieked Dolores, utterly losing her temper. She snatched up the book Irma had been reading and tore it open. Irma let the weight of the library behind her flow through and mingle with her own cold, calculated fury. The book in Dolores's hand flew apart, each page slicing the finest of paper cuts into her fingers, her palm, up her wrist.

 

"I am not trifling," said Irma, over Dolores's screams and futile attempts to bat the pages away from her. "Keep out of this library."

 

The pages fell away from Dolores and Irma gathered them into her hand, neatly between the covers. Ignoring the sputtering, futile threats Dolores stammered out as she cradled her stinging hand, she tapped the spine and the book neatly bound itself up again.

 

"You haven't heard the last of this," spat Dolores. Irma simply stared at her, seeing her as the latest, most unworthy, successor to a string of witches and wizards who had expected her to bend to their will. This time, she'd simply been more forthright about her lack of compliance. She found that she knew how to be a leader when all other support was gone, though it never got easier. Dolores stormed from the room, and Irma hoped, uncharitably, that she would disinfect the cuts with something that would sting.

 

Irma smoothed the covers of the book. There was no one here to comfort her and help her, but she remembered the first night she'd found her strength and used it to protect the library and the students in her charge. She took a deep breath and imagined how Helga would have shaken her head, and smiled with such rueful understanding, before holding Irma close. Funnily enough, she could almost imagine Minerva doing the same thing, and the feeling of support and compassion would be the same. 

 

Irma knew that Dolores wouldn't give up so easily. When thwarted, she would be capable of the meanest of petty spites. She put the book down and walked towards the doors. It was time to check the wards and hexes on everything, just in case. Perhaps a few new hexes, specific to the most recent High Inquisitor, might not go amiss.

 

>>>>

 

Excerpt from a personal letter, from Irma Pince to Albus Dumbledore, no date.

 

"Since we are talking of young people who wish to learn at the speed of their intellectual grasp and not the speed of their emotional maturity, let me remind you, then, of a certain incident in 1898 involving the Restricted Section and a young and brilliant student from a difficult background. But perhaps just the reminder of that day should be enough for you to come to your senses. You certainly went on to use that knowledge, however inappropriate some might have thought it, for good ends.

 

However, I have known you for a long time and have seen every angle of your charming demeanour, and I am tolerably certain that your gentle suggestion of more oversight of what is and isn't appropriate for children is actually a rather less gentle directive from the Board of Governors that I control what their - and, more importantly, other people's - children get to see. I can only suggest that you send them to speak with me personally, and we'll see what inventive applications I can find for a very useful hex that causes inflation of the body commensurate with the inflation of one's ego. I know you won't do this. You will placate them with soft answers and prevarication. 

 

Of course, and more personally, and seriously, there are risks associated with the way this library runs. That is inevitable. Some people are dangerous with knowledge they don't understand fully, or they lack the empathy to use it constructively. I have struggled with this dilemma for a long time, and believe the restrictions and compromises I have made, and alter as time changes all things, are the best they can be. The risks are not the fault of this library and the knowledge housed within, which was created to be for everyone, and not Salazar himself could overwrite that. I will not do so now, no matter how dark Riddle's ascent. You know that the Light comes from love and knowledge both."

 

>>>>

 

Irma sat on the wide ledge of one of the main library windows to experience a few moments of silence in the early morning sun before work started for the day. There was reconstruction all around the Castle, but the library was largely untouched. All her hard work over the years had paid off; there was nowhere more reinforced and carefully warded. She'd extended a web of spells over every shelf, every drawer and cupboard, through the windows and beams and down into the rock. She wasn't sure she could feel proud of her diligence, not when the rest of the Castle was so damaged. 

 

The doors opened quietly and Irma watched Minerva slip inside. Smiling, Irma waved her over. Minerva looked tired, but there was something clear and resolute about her. She seemed to know what it was she had to do to bring the Castle back to life. Irma had always thought that Minerva seemed deeply aware of the ambient magic of the world, and that characteristic was stronger now than ever. 

 

Sinking into the patch of morning sun with a grateful sigh, Minerva lifted her face to the light.

 

"This is a good place to greet the day," she said.

 

"It is," said Irma. "But you should still be sleeping, if you can."

 

"I could say the same to you," said Minerva. "I've seen you out on all sorts of repair crews from morning till night, never taking a break. Thank you; your knowledge of the Castle is invaluable."

 

"I owe so much more," Irma said. She'd been trying not to think of all the things she could have done differently in all the long history of her Librarianship, but she could not shake the sense of obligation she felt now.

 

"I know how you feel," said Minerva, and Irma rather imagined she did. "I imagine we're both plagued by might-have-beens."

 

They sat in silence for long moments, but the comfort of Minerva's presence made the burden seem lighter. There is never fog in hindsight, as the saying went, and so Irma did her best to move forward.

 

"I'm worried about Harry and his friends," said Minerva. Irma nodded. They all of them carried a weight of hope and gratitude that must be crushing. "Can you find them something to do in here?"

 

Irma considered. There was really no structural work to be done, but perhaps she could find something. Perhaps they could remove a few of the hexes and wards specific to the last few years. Some of them would no longer be necessary, and she did like to have clean spellwork without unnecessary layers to clutter it up.

 

"Yes," she said. "I don't think anyone will bother them in here, and the work will be difficult enough that they can't wallow, but not so difficult as to stress them further."

 

"Thank you," said Minerva again.

 

"That is the second time you have thanked me, but there is no need. Quite aside from my duty as Librarian, I am personally happy to help. This place is beloved to me, and I wish to see it refreshed. I should be thanking you."

 

"I have done nothing," protested Minerva.

 

"Nonsense," said Irma. "You feel things by instinct, things that some past headmasters and mistresses have never known, and you will rebuild this Castle in the heart of the Founders. It is not a mean accomplishment."

 

"That is still a long way off," Minerva said.

 

"Long as you reckon it, perhaps. But let's not quibble. Helga would say we should both learn to accept the consideration and gratitude of others, when modestly given and received."

 

"We should learn that," Minerva agreed. She took Irma's hand as it lay between them and Irma turned her hand over and let her fingers curl around. 

 

The sun rose higher and the Castle stirred around them. Minerva drew back, but Irma put her hands on Minerva's shoulders and pulled her close instead. The kiss she gave was gentle and sweet. After a moment's hesitation, Minerva reciprocated in the same feeling. It was an awakening thing, with the promise of many tomorrows. The warmth of it stayed with Irma, even after they parted, and she treasured the look of surprise mingled with anticipation that Minerva gave her.

 

She looked up again as the door opened and children slipped inside. As well as the three she'd expected, there was Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott. She smiled to see Hannah, and see the new confidence in her. Irma had seen her throughout the last year and the restoration finding ways to use her own gifts and talents. She was warm, thoughtful and compassionate. She could discover what people needed, sometimes without them saying a word, and help them figure out how to get it. She could lend her strength to those sad, lonely or broken, without even realising that's what she was doing. It had been a small light in the darkness, and one that Irma had valued.

 

"Greetings," she said. "I have a small job for you today."

 

Irma moved around the library, catching up on her neglected routines and keeping an eye on the students as they wrestled with her spellwork. She heard Hermione's excited chatter as they pulled apart some of the finer and more specific hexes and smiled. She rather liked being surprising.

 

>>>>

 

Excerpt from Alienor Paternoster (1982) _The Librarian and Death: an ookward truth_ :

 

A Librarian ages only slowly, or not at all, for many long years, but as all things must pass, so too must they. The passing of a Librarian, and the establishment of a new Librarian, is one of those phenomena that is so infrequent as to be almost completely opaque to scholarship, compounded as it is by the natural reticence of Librarians themselves to speak of it. Careful perusal of such pivotal documents as the <i>International Statutes on Libraries in Magical Institutions<i> (first ratified in 1487 at the first meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards), the earlier <i>Guidelines of the Council of Librarians and Bibliomancers<i> (first convened in 202BCE, soon after the establishment of the library at Alexandria), has yielded important key facts.

 

First, the founding, or establishment, Librarian retains little of their previous life, and appears to spring fully formed from the founding book of the library. However, they are almost certainly humans who volunteered to be Librarians, having registered with the Council and undergone rigorous training and testing. When a new library is founded, the book calls on the best suited of the candidates in the register. It is unclear how this magic functions, or why they retain so little of their former life. It does, however, demonstrate the strongly held passion and sense of vocation that a Librarian must demonstrate - they could be called any time, under any circumstances, to any place.

 

Second, Librarians may be killed on the destruction of their library. Most famously, this happened in Alexandria, and no wizard was able to visit the site for many hundreds of years afterwards without suffering inexplicable nausea, existential dread and excessive papercuts. Interestingly, on the establishment of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, the Librarian reappeared, and now harbours intense and vicious hatred towards people named Julius, Theophilius and 'Amr ibn al-'As, three of the main culprits of destruction. For that reason, people with these names are strongly advised to visit the library under a pseudonym.

 

Third, a Librarian may simply grow weary. While they do not age physically, they do grow tired, and eventually will choose a replacement and bind them to the library's service. They will serve together, in an extended apprenticeship, for a number of years. The longest period has been over a thousand years, though most are in the low hundreds of years. The original Librarian will support and nurture the growth of the replacement, keeping the original spirit of the library intact, and passing on as much as possible of the informal history as they can. When they are ready, they will simply disappear, and no one can say any more of what becomes of them."

 

>>>>

 

Early mornings had always been Irma's favourite time. She wasn't sure who had located the library in the Castle, but she could only be grateful for the light that spilled in with the sunrise. She'd persuaded one of the early headmistresses with a taste for decoration to commission the four stained glass windows on the eastern side, and she loved to start her morning under Hufflepuff's window.

 

Minerva was not a morning person, so Irma often slipped from the bed and made her way to the library for her sunrise ritual with a cup of tea. This morning, however, Minerva rolled over and snaked her arm around Irma's waist just as she was thinking about getting up.

 

"Good morning," she mumbled.

 

"Good morning," Irma replied. "You're awake early."

 

"Not awake," Minerva said.

 

"No, definitely not. Shall I get us both a cup of tea?" Minerva made an indeterminate noise that Irma couldn't interpret. She gave up for the moment and relaxed back again into the mattress. Her cup of tea could wait for a while. Habits were important, but so was savouring the fleeting joys of life, and morning snuggles with a sleepy Minerva were one of them. She let herself lie still and relax for a time.

 

Minerva appeared to rouse herself a little more. "I could do with tea," she said. Irma smiled to herself and fumbled on the bedside table for her wand, tapping it twice on the wood. Inky appeared and smiled up at Irma.

 

"Mistress is late for tea, but other Mistress is early for tea," said Inky. "Is we having a compromise?"

 

Irma laughed softly at the beautifully simple idea. "Yes, please, we would like compromise tea very much."

 

Inky nodded seriously and popped back into existence a few moments later with a tea tray, which they arranged on the table.

 

"Thank you," said Irma. She dislodged Minerva's arm and sat up, to Minerva's slurred disapproval. Minerva propped herself up on one elbow and accepted a cup with a noise of thanks. Irma kissed her, which was accepted much more gracefully.

 

Irma let Minerva drag herself to wakefulness slowly. The bed was warm and the tea was delicious. Irma could afford to be patient. At last Minerva sat up properly and put on her glasses. While still rumpled, she was clearly awake and alert. Irma smiled at her fondly. Minerva was not as obviously duplicitous as some, but she had subtle depths, and Irma loved that she got to see a more intimate version than most.

 

"You're awake early," Irma said, now that it seemed likely that Minerva could use actual words.

 

"Some early worm professors want a breakfast meeting today. Apparently they're all busy getting ready for the children to return next week." Irma laughed softly at Minerva's slightly acid tone. She could just imagine how she felt about combining breakfast with talking. "I've arranged for the house elves to make kedgeree," Minerva continued, "and porridge with butter and salt. That will learn them to be enthusiastic."

 

"I am sure they will be chastened," said Irma. She knew that the house elves would provide plenty of other food, but Minerva's temper would be vastly improved by the kedgeree and porridge.

 

"What are you up to today?"

 

"I'm paying a visit to Hannah Abbott," Irma said. "Regarding looking for an apprentice," she continued, when Minerva looked at her inquiringly.

 

Irma thought Minerva must still be a little sleepy; she certainly took a few moments of blinking before she made the connection between Hannah Abbott, looking for an apprentice, and Irma's desire to bring her Librarianship to a close. She knew about the last, of course she did, and supported Irma's decision to pass over her guardianship.

 

"A barmaid as Hogwarts Librarian?" gasped Minerva at last.

 

"Someone's intellectual bias is showing," said Irma. "And she is the owner and proprietor, not a barmaid."

 

Minerva took a long swallow of her tea and tapped the cup to refill it. Irma waited. She had no doubts that her choice of Librarian to follow her would be surprising, to say the least, and she was prepared to weather this bout of questioning at least. She supposed it might be said she'd taken unfair advantage of Minerva's dislike of mornings, not to mention their comparative lack of clothing and definite position of intimacy, but Irma was not one to put off things.

 

"I must admit, I don't quite follow your reasoning," Minerva said, after another mouthful of her tea.

 

"She's not an obvious choice, is she?" said Irma. "But she has many qualities that would make her an excellent Librarian. She has the magic of knowing what people need, and finding ways to make it happen for them. She can listen, and keep things confidential. She is kind, but she knows when to cut someone off, and I've heard she's even helped some of those who turn to alcohol for comfort beyond what is normal to turn themselves around."

 

"And that's what a Librarian needs?" asked Minerva, still sounding doubtful.

 

"That's what this Librarian needs," said Irma. "I can still remember clearly the words that called me into this post, and sometimes I haven't lived up to them. I have had long years of struggling with the balance between freedom of knowledge and the safety of our future. I was tasked with nurturing both, and I hope my successor will do better."

 

Irma saw that Minerva was silenced, but still a little doubtful. She put her cup down and put her arm around Minerva's shoulders. Abandoning her tea on the bedside table, Minerva settled in close. 

 

"I think you've done a good job," said Minerva.

 

"Thank you," said Irma. "There, that was practically immodest by my standards. I am still changing. And I won't stop being Librarian overnight; even if Hannah agrees, I still have long years of work and light ahead of me."

 

"And love," said Minerva.

 

"Oh yes," said Irma. "Definitely love."

 

>>>>

 

Excerpt from personal letter from Irma Pince to Hannah Abbott, undated:

 

"I have enjoyed working with you since you became Librarian. I knew you would be an excellent choice, and so it has proved. Like me, you grew up in a time of discord and uncertainty. I was just starting to master my responsibilities and purpose as Librarian when Salazar first tried to break down the great egalitarianism of Hogwarts and its library in the ignorant spirit of intolerance. You were still a child when Riddle tried to destroy the wizarding world in the name of his own fear of uncertainty and tainted hubris. I lived through other dark wizards, though I hope you shall not have to.

 

Since being bound to this Library, you have known of our purpose, and felt the four winding strands of the vision that made it up. From Ravenclaw, a wild freedom of thought. From Gryffindor, a daring willingness to experiment. From Slytherin, a belief in oneself and one's vision. From Hufflepuff, a determined compassion for all others who share the world. Together, they make a complex picture of what knowledge is and what it's for. 

 

You are the guardian of that knowledge now. You, and you alone, determine the many and varied rules and systems that govern those big questions. I found that burden hard to carry sometimes, and I faltered, or grew cold and unyielding, or lost sight of the human needs of my library. I trust that you will do better than I did, in such situations. Keep hold of being human, of being Hannah, a woman. You must cling to love, and to life. You must live, and let knowledge live, for knowledge is the story of people and ideas in all their contradictory glory.

 

I don't know what happens to me now. Isn't it wonderful to think that I can write this in the middle of a huge body of knowledge, stretching back centuries, and still have the unknown to look forward to? I hope I might see Helga again, waiting for me with her unending patience, and Minerva standing next to her tapping her foot and wanting to move on and strive further. If there is an afterlife, I can only imagine what those two made of one another, but that thought makes me laugh, and this is supposed to be a serious letter. But, there, laughter is one thing you have already introduced in this library, and merriment is an excellent accompaniment to learning. Long may you keep laughing!"


End file.
